


Trouble

by bluetears07



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How a Basterd and a Brit escape a life threatening standoff with a Nazi in a fucking basement while managing to only sustain minor injuries. And then have sex. Knives and blood and sewing up bullet wounds while drinking whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble

The alcohol is still burning its way down Hicox throat as he passes the gun from his left hand to his right beneath the table.

“Stiglitz.” He speaks around the cigarette bouncing between his lips.

“Say “auf Wiedersehen” to your Nazi balls.” Stiglitz fires two rapid shots. Hicox wrenches Hellstrom’s wrist backwards as the major squeezes the trigger. The bullet misses its intended target, instead tearing a long path across the top of Hicox’s thigh. Without hesitation, Hicox pulls his gun above the table and shoots Hellstrom pointblank in the face. At such a close range, the bullet rips right through him. The major slumps over, blood flooding the tabletop, seeping into the wood and running off the end before fanning out across the stone floor.

Bridget bolts for the staircase.

It is a moment before the young soldiers draw their guns, reaction time slowed by mass consumption of cheap schnapps. Wicki takes care of two of the soldiers still seated at the table. Stiglitz jumps from his chair and calmly fires a bullet between the eyes of the bar owner and the other young soldier before either are able to wrap a fingers around their triggers. The brute of a woman gets a couple lucky drunken shots off, one bouncing around in Wicki’s skull and the other buried deep in Bridget’s shin, before Stiglitz empties his clip into her chest. Stumbling out of the back, the young father starts firing blindly inside the basement tavern, riddling the young French barmaid with bullets before Hicox sinks his shot.

Bridget is silent and trembling on the staircase, blood dripping down the metal supports.

Wicki lays faceless and still on the floor.

Stiglitz unsheathes his knife.

Hicox, bracing himself on the table with shoulders slumped, dabs at his face with a napkin.

It is still for an instant before the thick accent of Lieutenant Aldo Raine comes bellowing down the staircase.

“How many of you sons-a-bitches are left?”

“Three, lieutenant.” Stiglitz responds, staring at Hicox as he lifts up his hand—thumb, fore and middle finger. The German three. Hicox holds Stiglitz gaze as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. He snubs it out on the table.

“Good to hear, Stiglitz.”

“Lieutenant Raine,” Hicox calls, finally looking away from Stiglitz as he attempts to put a little weight on his injured leg. A hiss of pain slips from between his teeth and he backs off. “Would you kindly send one of your men down to escort Fraulein von Hammersmark, I do believe she was injured in the tussle.” Donny slowly clambers halfway down the stairs, scowling. Bridget looks up at him with big, scared eyes. He surveys the mess, sees Wicki’s corpse and swears under his breath. He easily scoops up the actress, throwing her over his shoulder. There is a muffled cry and a sarcastic, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Fraulein von Setup,” as Donny and Bridget disappear up the stairs.

The sound of labored breathing from across the table grows louder in the quiet basement. It is the only sound in the room, filling it beyond capacity, stifling the remaining shreds of humanity.

“Stiglitz,” Hicox murmurs the man’s name. Stiglitz is standing over the body of Major Hellstrom, plunging his knife deep into the back of the man’s head. He carves along the gaping wound caused by Hicox’s bullet, further scrambling the Gestapo’s brain. Blood and minced gray matter drip down his front, fragments of bone cling to his bloody hands as he twists the hilt. He pulls the blade out, tearing at the major’s already tattered scalp. Hicox stomach churns but he limps closer to the man, undeniably intrigued. “Stiglitz.” A heavy hand falls on Stiglitz’s shoulder, firm and tilting him away from the carnage. He stops on contact, mind clearing and chest heaving as he takes in deep breaths through his mouth. “That’s enough now, old chap.” Hicox voice is liquid and calm, eyes soft as he searches Stiglitz’s face.

The hand remains as Stiglitz carefully flays the shreds of skin off Hellstrom’s skull, taking his prize and stealing it away in his breast pocket.

Momentarily sated, Stiglitz backs away from the body and notices Hicox lithe frame is bowed in muted pain. He sees the drawn brows, tense shoulders and a blossoming stain accompanied by the ragged tear in the lieutenant’s thigh. For a moment Stiglitz wants nothing more than to eviscerate Hellstrom. The desire is a fresher shade of old revenge, reignited by Hicox presence. Fingers itching for his blade, Stiglitz instead wraps his fingers around Hicox’s wrist. A brief sensation of protector unfurls in the pit of Stiglitz gut when the man’s warm skin yields beneath his hand. He toys with the feeling, moving around the corner of the table to duck under Hicox’s arm and take on some of the lieutenant’s deadweight.

“Nick the scotch first.” Stiglitz pauses, still grasping the lieutenant’s wrist. The bottle of scotch rests on the bar top, unbroken and splattered with blood. Stiglitz grabs the bottle and wipes it off with his sleeve before uncapping and handing it to Hicox. “Good man.” He salutes Stiglitz with a thin smile. The German slips his arm around Hicox’s waist and drapes the man’s arm over his shoulders. Stiglitz helps him up the stairs, more careful with his man than Donny had handled Frau von Hammersmark. Hicox sloshes back a few mouthfuls of scotch as they slowly spiral up above ground.

 

 

Alone, Hicox sits on an operating table, injured leg kicked up on the metal surface, nursing the bottle of scotch and a crumpled cigarette. It is not a proper hospital, but it is clean and they are injured. Hicox looks up when the door opens, Stiglitz quietly steps inside carrying a medical kit.

“The doctor is tending to Frau von Hammersmark.” There is a shrill scream from the other operating room where Hicox assumes Bridget is undergoing an American form of healthcare. Stiglitz gives him a flat expression. “The lieutenant is assisting.” The corners of his mouth twitch into a straight razor smirk, eyes sparking in the dim electric light like flint. Hicox responds with a small chuckle despite the unease and dark thoughts of deathtraps set for handsome, slightly deranged German sergeants and snappy British lieutenants. A loud clang echoes in the tiny room as Stiglitz drops the first aid kit down at the foot of the operating table. He shucks the filthy S.S. jacket, allowing it to drop to the floor where he kicks it aside next to Hicox’s discarded uniform. Beneath, the blood had seeped through to stain the white a nearly comical shade of light red. His hands, though, have been scrubbed clean of any trace of blood and bone fragments. Methodically, Stiglitz starts to roll up his shirtsleeves and Hicox gets the distinct impression that things are going to get a lot more ugly before the night is through with him.

“You know,” Hicox begins; his voice light as he mentally prepares to force Stiglitz into engaging in some semblance of a conversation. He takes a short draw off the cigarette. Cold fingers probe at the tender skin of his upper thigh as Stiglitz inspects the wound. “I have always been fascinated by the German psyche.” A glint of steel and one fluid motion, Stiglitz slices up the inner seam of the lieutenant’s slacks. There is a sharp inhale of breath as the cool blade lingers a little too long near Hicox’s crotch. He notices the blade has also been meticulously cleaned. “You really are quite adept with that.”

Stiglitz likes that the lieutenant sounds impressed.

“Practice,” Stiglitz murmurs, glancing up into Hicox’s face as he gingerly peels away the filthy fabric, making note of the stray fibers imbedded in the man’s flesh. The pants leg hangs splayed open, sagging off the side of the table in a limp bloody mess. Hicox places the cigarette to his lips but stops short, musing on all the possible interpretations of Stiglitz’s brief response. “Lie down.” Stiglitz presses his hand to the man’s chest; it is warm through the white button down.

“It’s just a glorified scratch.” Hicox halfheartedly brushes the hand off. “I’ll be fine,” he says as he squashes the cigarette into the table. Picking up the bottle of scotch, he presses it into Stiglitz’s hands. “Here.”

“Thank you, sir.” The German takes a pull from the scotch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before placing it on the table next to the kit. Silently, he soaks a clean piece of cloth with rubbing alcohol.

Hicox watches Stiglitz hands, callused fingers and rough palms, while the man finishes cleaning the dark crusted blood that had seeped out during their frantic search for a safe house. The coarse skin feels real and capable, something Hicox is surprised he takes comfort in. Carefully, Stiglitz starts to extract the debris caught in the shallow gash with a pair of tweezers. It is clear to the lieutenant that this man is very skilled with his hands, focused and thorough. He begins to wonder what the German did before the war, if he snapped long ago or only when war rolled around and he began killing members of the Gestapo as an enlisted man.

“Do you normally have this job, Stiglitz?”

“If you are injured, you patch yourself up.” Hicox is not surprised. He figures either Raine ordered Stiglitz to help in lieu of leaving the Brit to fend for himself, thus suffering the wrath of General Fenech, or Stiglitz volunteered his services. Regardless of motivations, Hicox is thankful Stiglitz is the one assisting him rather than any of the other Basterds. He already entrusted his life to Stiglitz once tonight, why not again—Hicox barely knew the pack of murdering Yanks.

“You were good back there,” Hicox concedes, acknowledging the sergeant’s quick action in trying to rid them of the far too observant drunk soldier, before adding, “maybe a little stilted and on edge, but still.” It is a gentle chide but Stiglitz puts the tweezers down and picks up the bottle of scotch.

“Had to save you from yourself.” He straightens up to take another drink while gauging Hicox’s reaction. The lieutenant cocks a haughty eyebrow. Stiglitz swallows the mouthful of alcohol. “Captain ‘Piz Palu.’”

“Very good.” Hicox chuckles, taking a liking to Stiglitz’s surprisingly dry wit and not so shocking twisted sense of humor. Stiglitz plucks the last chunk of fabric out and discards the tweezers. “Such a minor thing, it completely slipped my mind.” He stares at his hand, holding up three fingers before switching the ring for the thumb. Rummaging around in the kit, Stiglitz grabs the half empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and a few cotton swabs. “I’ve heard many stories about you, Hugo. I wa—” Hicox yelps in pain, kicking the medical kit off the end of the operating table as Stiglitz flushes the gaping wound with alcohol. The tin clatters to the tiled floor, spilling its contents in a mosaic of instruments and gauze around Stiglitz’s feet.

“Bloody hell. A little warning next time, sergeant.” Hicox’s eyes are watering as Stiglitz shoves the scotch into the man’s hands.

“Sorry. Drink more.” Stiglitz grabs the bottom of the bottle, forcing it back as Hicox put it to his lips. “Again.” With his free hand, the sergeant pours another bath of alcohol over the gash. The lieutenant takes the next wave of searing pain in stride. “You may need stitches.” It is not a deep cut but rather long, nearly spanning the width of the lieutenant’s thigh.

Hicox tosses back one last swig of the stolen scotch before passing the almost empty bottle to Stiglitz. The German takes a mouthful, killing it. The alcohol is starting to go to the lieutenant’s head; a slight buzz permeating throughout is brain, taking away the first filter of propriety. He stares intently at the man’s sharp Germanic profile as he cleans away the excess alcohol and blood flushed from the cut. Straight nose, a cut jaw and parted lips Hicox wants to see swollen and flushed. His head begins to dip, slowly inching closer to the German.

“I was wondering.” He thumps Stiglitz on the chest, briefly letting his hand lay heavily against the man’s breastbone. “Curious as I am…” His head finally drops, buried in the junction of neck and shoulder. Stiglitz smells like blood, gunmetal and sweat. “Are any of those legends true?” Thin lips graze white hot across the jumping pulse as he speaks in a low whisper.

Sharp, bitter steel presses against the hard cut of his jaw, the very tip digging just enough to pierce through the top most layer of flesh. Hicox slowly pulls away just enough to be eye to eye with Stiglitz, guided by the man’s blade.

“Would you be looking for trouble now, Lieutenant Hicox?” Hicox is caught off guard by the teasing tone undercutting Stiglitz’s threat.

“Only if it’s the kind I know how to handle.” He responds hesitantly, brows drawn in mild confusion. There is a homicidal madman boiling just beneath the thin surface of the calm, quiet exterior Stiglitz presents. Hicox feels a familiar heady rush flooding his body, the same exhilaration he feels each time he steps behind enemy lines masquerading as one of their own. One misstep.

“I’m sure you do.” Stiglitz lips brush against Hicox’s as he speaks. He doesn’t move, standing still, breathing deep and even. Every nerve ending in Hicox’s body is lit up, on edge waiting to react.

Hicox is slammed back onto the operating table as Stiglitz climbs on top of him, careful to avoid aggravating the lieutenant’s wound. The man gasps as the wind is knocked from his lungs. Stiglitz is crouched on knees framing the lieutenant’s hips, one hand pressed against the table just above Hicox’s shoulder. He grips the German’s bare forearm with long fingers, bracing himself. The knife is still poised at the man’s throat as Stiglitz menaces over him with a wide grin and Hicox has never wanted a fuck so badly before.

Hicox does not move as the blade begins tracing the hot flush down to the hollow of his throat, cutting away the tight little buttons of his shirt. Stiglitz never looks away from the lieutenant’s face, observing his every movement with smiling eyes and lips parted. The German has barely touched him and Hicox’s hips are already twitching, begging to be bruised. He can feel the knife dip lower as his breathing becomes shallow, hitching in his throat.

“While it is quite a nice piece of work,” he begins as the tip of the dagger comes to rest at his belt, impatiently waiting. “Much like yourself, Hugo,” Hicox gives him a bright, winning smile though it seems a little winded.

Stiglitz likes the way Lieutenant Hicox says his name as well as his clever tongue.

The German laughs and it’s more of a growling huff against Hicox’s cheek. There is a brief tug on his waist as Stiglitz flicks his wrist. With a dull clink, Stiglitz unclasps the lieutenant’s belt buckle with the knife.

“If—” Hicox swallows and Stiglitz feels the hard press of the man’s cock along his knuckles. He arches up into the brief touch. Stiglitz makes quick work of the three-button fly but pauses before reaching inside, waiting to hear Hicox’s request. The lieutenant’s eyes are bright and his hands are drawn to the waist of Stiglitz’s slacks, keen on fluster the seemingly unflappable German sergeant. “If you wouldn’t mind putting the blade away for the time being.” It’s too much stimulation; Stiglitz bizarre personality is enough to contend with for coherency. Hicox begins to fumble with the German’s belt, overeager and clumsy. “I think I’ve lost enough blood for one evening.” He pauses and smiles up at Stiglitz with a soft laugh—the sound is nothing like the charming forced bravado and hollow chuckles from the tavern.

Stiglitz likes the quiet honesty in his face.

“If it makes you more comfortable, sir.” He cocks an eyebrow and briefly retreats, pulling away to sheath the dagger. Guiding the man’s hands, Stiglitz unbuckles his belt while Hicox starts undoing the buttons.

“Thank you, Hugo.”

The German ducks back down, closer, propped up on one elbow. Hicox feels a smirk twisting his lips as he slips his hand inside Stiglitz slacks to brush against an already hard cock pressing painfully tight against the fabric. Slowly, Hicox starts jacking him, thumb lazily rubbing over the tip. Stiglitz’s hips instantly drop lower, his thighs spreading until his knees are pressed against the very edge of the operating table. Hips canted, Hicox’s hands fall away to grip the man’s waist as their cocks brush against one another. The pace is quick and rushed, gasping as they move together.

Stiglitz cards his fingers through Hicox’s hair, raking across his scalp, gripping a chunk at the crown of the man’s head. He tugs sharply and Hicox bends into it with his whole body. Tongue blazing up the arch of Hicox’s throat, passing over the bobbing windpipe and strong chin to rest on the soft fleshy lower lip, Stiglitz swallows Hicox’s moan inside his own mouth. It is all sharp teeth and slick tongues and hot breathes against his cheekbone. Stiglitz grinds his hips down against Hicox’s as their teeth click together. Hicox can tell Stiglitz is not well versed in kisses; it is harsh and clumsy but fitting—in a peculiar way, almost endearing.

Tearing away, Stiglitz brings his free hand up to Hicox’s hot wet mouth. The lieutenant licks up the palm in broad strokes, biting the tip of the man’s finger before sucking it into his mouth. It tastes faintly of soap covering up the distinct metallic bite of blood. Eyes wide, cheeks hollow, Hicox watches as Stiglitz begins to come unhinged with arousal, breath staggered and eyes unfocused. Hand slicked, Stiglitz wraps it around Hicox’s cock. It’s a wholly new sensation, the calluses and harsh jerks. Blunt fingernails dig into the strained muscles beneath Stiglitz’s clothed thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. Despite the injury, Hicox’s hips continue bucking into Stiglitz’s tight fist. He can feel the fresh blood slowly oozing out, smearing all over Stiglitz pants as he fucks the sergeant’s hand.

“Hu—”

“Shhh.” Stiglitz clamps a hand over Hicox mouth as the man comes in a low keening moan.

It only takes a few quick snaps of Hicox’s wrist and Stiglitz eyes screw shut. His arm gives out and he buries his face in the crook of the lieutenant’s shoulder. Still on his knees, Stiglitz stifles the moan that reverberates deep in his chest. The pain in his leg is dull and distant, muted by the weight of Stiglitz pressed tight against him.

“Hicox,” the brazen Tennessee accent rattles through the windowpane in the door and Stiglitz immediately recoils. He stays perched on the operating table, resting back on his knees with his hands splayed on Hicox’s chest glistening with come. Raine is silhouetted in the distorted glass. “There’s a man out here what wants to see you about a tuxedo.” His shadow shifts, folding its arms expectantly.

“I’ll be out momentarily,” Hicox replies coolly as he tucks Stiglitz back into his slacks, slowly fastening the button fly. Stiglitz leans back down, tongue slipping past teeth into the lieutenant’s mouth. Hicox raises his hand to grip the back of Stiglitz neck. The shadow grows smaller as the American starts to walk away.

“Hey.” The shadow and jarring accent quickly return, mildly confused. “Is Stiglitz still in there with you?” They hear the shadow quietly chuckle to himself. “He chatting your ear off or something, Archie?” The shadow leans against the doorframe, nonchalant and knowing.


End file.
